My Ten And One.
For awhile I was the right kind of crazy. Drove fast, drank tons, always up for anything. Somewhere along the way the crazy-meter broke, exceeded all expectations, and went off the charts into another stratosphere. I never saw it coming. Neither did anyone around me.
Luckily for me, the first psych stay is a total black out. I get tiny flashes of moments; always embarrassing beyond belief. I vaguely remember “coming to,” strapped to a gurney, freaking out. I had no idea what was going on. Those moments, waking up, were the worst of my life. Scary. Traumatizing. Life altering. I wish I could tell cool, Girl Interrupted stories, but they’re more like Chick Ceases to Exist.
I went home soon after becoming “aware.” I was a walking, medicated-zombie, but at least I was conscious. A girl there told me “Something was inside you. You weren’t you, but it’s gone now.” Freaked me the fuck out. But, we were both insane, so what’d we know. I once told an ex-boyfriend, who lived through my first two hospital stays (he got out before number three) and he cried. It was intense. Something about what she said hit him somewhere deep. I’ll never fully know what he endured staying with me. I feel obnoxious and repulsive for making him experience the horror-of-a-shit-show that was my life.
My brother, the closest person to me, HATED me after my third, and finale go at in-patient. HATE is mild. Whenever he looked at me, it was obvious he’d rather I not be around. If I could’ve offered him any comfort, it would’ve been: I too, was bummed I existed. Not even existed, just was.
I think my brother and I were supposed to be twins. He absolutely wouldn’t agree, but I believe it with all my heart. He’s four-and-a-half years younger than me. Another lame period of life, I barely remember.
There are things about the last, in my collection of psych stays that I don’t know I’ll ever archive or acknowledge. Some things are best left forgotten.
I remember 80 percent of my ten days in. Once you “voluntarily” admit yourself - you have to stay a set time period to be monitored. At least that’s what I was told.
Fully conscious in a mental health facility is fascinating. Boring, terrifying, shameful, confining, and all that, but as someone who enjoys people watching it was also, kind of, riveting. People did things they’d have no recollection of the next day. I felt that. Although, it was strange to be on the other end. I met professors, drug addicts, stay-at-home moms; it was surprising to see who found themself there. I mostly wrote. I was teetering between sanity and insanity, so it’d be interesting to read those notebooks. They’re around here, somewhere.
Last year I should’ve been hospitalized again, but I played the part of pretend sanity very well. I was manic for seven months. I’d vowed after my last in-patient stay to never return, so when I found myself in the emergency room facing another stint I lied. My thoughts were scattered, rapid and overwhelming. My speech pattern faster than my driving. I explained it away by saying I was anxious rather than saying what was really happening, which was I didn’t know.
By the grace of God and support of my family I recovered. As much as a mentally ill person can. I call it a period of stability. Not knowing when it’ll end or if the worst is finally behind me, I’m basking in the now. Thankful to have enough clarity to finally document my experience, I can only hope hearing my story offers comfort to someone in the midst of a fresh bipolar diagnosis. It’s hard. It’s taken me eleven years and countless medication combinations to find the right ones, but I think I’m finally there. And, if not, I know I have people who will see me through until I’m “me” again. A new me, with the experience and anguish that can come with mental illness, but a better, more sympathetic, less reckless person, who doesn’t mind driving the speed limit.